


Up In the Gallery

by Violsva



Series: Arte Regendus [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Growing Apart, M/M, Music Hall, Unfinished Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson learns something amusing about his friend, and catches a glimpse of Holmes’ solitary battle against Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up In the Gallery

The Haymarket was crowded, the gas lamps shining on flocks of people, in evening finery or ordinary dress or rags. Every kind of cloth caught the light, on hats or bonnets or coats, and it sparkled off the fittings of cabs where they weren’t covered with soot. Mary pushed back a wave of her blonde hair and laughed up at me out of pure joy. It was a warm summer night, my leg was giving me no pain whatsoever, and we were going to the Alhambra in Leicester Square, where the gaslights were overwhelmed by the light from the palatial music hall.

A horde of people milled around outside, and we made our way to the entrance very slowly. When we were nearly there Mary grabbed my arm.

“John!” she said. “That’s Mr Holmes.”

I followed her gaze in disbelief. It took me a moment to see the man she meant. He leaned against the corner of the theatre, smoking a cigarette. The light hit him, flickering as people passed in front of him, like the firelight by which Mary had first seen him. It was certainly Holmes.

“Do you think he’s on a case?” asked Mary.

“He must be,” I said – I knew Holmes’ opinion of music halls. I could not help but stare at him as the crowds jostled us his way. He was not dressed with his habitual neatness – the image he projected was of a slightly shabby and tasteless fellow aping gentility. A disguise, I realized, though a very basic one.

I tried to move towards the doors, so that if he were on a case we should not interrupt – he looked casual, but he might be waiting for a critical moment. It had been several weeks since I had seen him, but though I might like to be given the opportunity to speak with him I would not endanger his work. But as we passed he looked up, and reached out a hand to my arm.

“Doctor,” he said. “And Mrs. Watson.” He nodded at her.

“Holmes,” I replied, smiling.

“A night out?”

“Yes – but you? I know the music hall isn’t your preference,” I said. He grinned.

“Certainly not. But tonight I shall not be in the audience, at least, Watson. I’ve a case.”

“We thought you must,” said Mary. “Are we interrupting?”

“Not at all,” said Holmes.

“Can we be of assistance?” she asked. I would not have volunteered it, not with Mary present, but my wife often comes up with surprises. I’d learned to like it.

Holmes glanced at me, seemed to read my thoughts, and then smiled at Mary. “I won’t interrupt your evening, if I can help it,” he said. “The case is to do with Moriarty.”

“Then you must let me help,” I said. Though he invited me along for other cases, he had largely kept to himself in his actions against Moriarty, despite my – our – concerns for his well-being. But he had been straining himself over it, I knew – his condition in Lyons the previous spring had shown it clearly.

“No need,” said Holmes. “Do enjoy your night. I will see you later, I hope.” A smile pulled at his mouth. He already wore the expression he had at the end of a case, when he was preparing to reveal something unbelievable. I hoped it was a sign things were going well for him.

We discovered what his revelation was a little over an hour later. We sat in the stalls, applauding a troupe of acrobats as they tumbled off the boards, and waited for the next act.

“Now,” called the announcer, “the master of mystery, magician extraordinaire, Mr Aurelius!”

The magician strolled onto the stage. He was tall, thin, and dark haired, and twirled a cane. He took off his top hat to the audience and a flock of doves flew out of it, then disappeared. He tossed it into the air and caught it again before replacing it on his head. There was an easy grace to his movements that was impossibly familiar.

“Is that -?” whispered Mary next to me; I could only shake my head.

It was Holmes, in the mended suit he had been wearing before, now looking bright and new with the addition of red silk lapels and stage lighting. It couldn’t be Holmes.

His performance began before I could sort out my thoughts. He knotted together ropes and rings that in seconds fell cleanly apart again; he spilled a glass of wine on a cloth that, after a pass through his hands, became not only pure white again but attached to a dozen others of all colours; he borrowed a pocket watch from a gentleman in the audience and smashed it with a hammer, and then presented it back to him unharmed. And all of it was done with a casual grace and clever, sly manner that I had seen a thousand times before. I couldn’t believe it, but it was undoubtedly Holmes. As a stage magician he was both remarkable and ridiculous, not least in how well the role suited him.

Halfway through Mary turned to me, laughter and astonishment in her lovely eyes. “Did you know he could do all this?” she asked.

“I didn’t know,” I said, thinking of the flourish with which I had often seen Holmes produce the final clue to some mystery, to the surprise and consternation of his audience from the official police. “But I am not surprised.”

After a few minutes I began to take it in properly, and laughed. His flourish was certainly evident now. I could not tell if it was genuine or acted, but Holmes seemed to revel in the crowd’s applause and appreciation. I had seen him similarly countless times before a small audience of myself and the police, but he had always refused public acclaim. Yet now he was receiving it for these illusions and sleights of hand, which were nothing compared to his actual abilities, and to see him gaining praise for them instead was inherently humourous.

At last he set his top hat on fire with a flick of his wrist, put it out with the remaining wine, and then pulled another hat out of the empty bottle. He made some quip about his inability to refill the wine bottle, then saluted the audience with his new hat and exited the stage.

As the stagehands removed the table he had been using, Mary grabbed my hand. “We must go see him,” she said in the moment before the announcer spoke. “Not now, of course, but after all the performances. I don’t mind staying. Really, we must. That was marvellous, and I am quite desperate to know _why_.”

“Yes, if he’s still there,” I said, thankful that she had proposed it first. “My goodness, I don’t know that I could ever have predicted that.”

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, are that charming pair of West End mashers, the lovely Misses Kitty Butler and Nan King!”

I took in little of that act, or indeed the rest of the show. The music and patter were simply a background to my own surprise and humour. At the interval, after the ballet, Mary took my hand and stood. “I’ve had a thought,” she said. “He’ll no doubt be leaving, or at least starting on his case, now, rather than later. Let’s see if we can find him now, and then go back to the show.”

“All right,” I said, standing. We didn’t know where the stage door was, but with the help of an usher and half a crown we found it, and received directions to Holmes’ dressing room. I knocked at the door, and a second later Holmes poked his head out, then gave a brief bark of laughter and invited us in.

“Not that the accommodations are at all appealing, I am sure,” he said. He had already cleaned off his stage makeup and removed the flashy trim from his costume. The room, as he had said, was large enough for the table and chair placed in front of the mirror, and nothing else. “Do sit down, Mrs. Watson.” Mary turned the chair towards us and sat.

No doubt most men in my position would hesitate to have introduced their wife to their former lover at all, but of course as I had met Mary because of Holmes that was impossible. But there was another factor: Holmes _liked_ Mary. This was not mere wishful thinking on my part; he had told me that he approved of my choice, insofar as he could approve of any choice I made that way. He almost respected her, as he respected few women.

And Mary liked Holmes. She thought him too cold, I knew, but she listened to and read my stories of his cases with joy, and she was always gracious to him.

But of course, she did not know.

“Well,” said Holmes, “I hope you were both amused?”

“Wonderfully,” said Mary.

“How did I not know you could do any of that?” I asked.

He looked at me in surprise. “Didn’t you? You’ve seen me work. I did little onstage that I have not done for a case at some time or another. The fire was pure chemistry.”

“I suppose so. But I didn’t realize that you would have any interest in using your brilliance for something so simple.”

Holmes cannot help but preen a little when anyone calls him brilliant, and he did so now. “I admit I’ve been a trifle bored, of late. The variety has been a pleasure.” Mary laughed slightly at the pun. Holmes blinked and then looked a little irritated.

“But you must be investigating something, surely,” said Mary. “How does this help?”

“It provides a useful position to observe the backstage workings of this theatre,” said Holmes. “I suspected it was being used for various purposes by Moriarty’s organization.” He paused. “Also, I admit I thought it would be amusing.” We laughed.

“Have you found anything out?” asked Mary.

“A remarkable amount. In fact, the matter may come to fruition tonight.”

“Will you need assistance?” I asked without thinking.

He raised his eyebrows. “I would not turn it down. But you shouldn’t interrupt your evening out for my sake.”

“I suspect John will find it far more entertaining than the show,” said Mary slyly.

“I am only worried that you may be in danger alone, Holmes.”

“Of course, John. Do go. And is there anything I can do to help, Mr Holmes?”

“I don’t believe so. I will attempt to return your husband in one piece.”

“I’m sure you will. Take care, dearest.” She kissed my cheek.

“Really, my dear, if you would prefer -”

“I wouldn’t, though.” She was still smiling, with humour in her eyes. “This way, I shall get to hear all about it later, whereas I doubt Mr Holmes would be at all eager to spin tales for me.”

“Enjoy the show, Mrs. Watson,” said Holmes.

“I hope to. Not nearly so much as I already have, though.”

“You had best not wait for me, then,” I said. “I’ll try not to be home late.”

“Thank you. Good night, Mr Holmes.” She left us with one last smile at me. I looked after her for a moment before turning back to Holmes.

“A most understanding woman, your wife,” he said, with no clear expression in his voice. “She means just what she said, as well.”

“She is a marvel.”

“What I mean is that you shouldn’t feel guilty. I’ll try to give you some material for your publications, eh?” He lifted a bag I hadn’t noticed, and swept some remaining debris from the table into it. “Come, this room is wanted by another performer after the interval.” He held the door open for me with an ironic bow.

He led me quickly down a narrow hallway filled with similar numbered doors. The backstage was crowded, performers dashing in and out of their rooms in pieces of their costumes, more plainly dressed people hurrying or chatting or carrying equipment or scenery. Most ignored us; a few nodded at Holmes, and he acknowledged them back. At the end he turned left and we climbed a steep staircase to the first landing, a long, dim, dusty room. It was filled with storage trunks and coils of rope and old flat pieces of scenery, their painted faces turned towards the walls so they showed only bare boards. Holmes leaned against the wall in a space between two of them and lit a cigarette.

“We’ve some time to spare, now,” he said. “I hear you’ve been doing well for yourself, Watson. _The Sign of Four_ published now as well. I am glad to see you are writing more.”

He seemed to mean it entirely, and I merely smiled back at him rather than point out that his absence was partially responsible for my increased output.

He had not commented on the love story in the novel. It was mostly fiction; my actual courtship was far less rushed, and I had not mentioned it to Holmes during the case. Which of course did not mean he hadn’t known.

I had only told him about Mary when we had become engaged, a month later. He had not been at all surprised. He had, in fact, been almost complimentary to her. And then the visit had ended with him picking up his cocaine bottle with a snide comment and I had felt like hell for the next week.

I became aware that I had fallen into a brown study. Normally we could talk easily together, he and I, or even he and I and Mary. Perhaps it was my recent publication that was making me overly aware of the history between us. Surely Holmes must have moved past thinking of me so, after more than three years. And I had too, mostly.

“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that you are considering attempting to convince me of the joys to be found in married life? Or do you realize my tastes well enough to refrain?” He had been watching my face, then, though he had not followed my thoughts as closely as he sometimes did.

“If you are still not interested in women, you could -” I began, and my voice broke off. Holmes raised his eyebrows.

It might have been a prompt to continue, but I did not. Or it might have been a commentary on my thoughts – I hoped desperately that they were not obvious, but I had no way of knowing what was obvious to him.

He had had men before me, I knew, but so far as I could tell none after, and I had watched for them, curious. I told myself firmly that I had no right to such wonderings, and turned away to look in the direction of the stage.

“What on earth was that performance in aid of?” I asked, to change the subject. “What precisely are you investigating in this place?”

“I needed to look about backstage. I believe Moriarty’s agents approach the travelling actors who visit this theatre, and I wanted to see if any were dull enough to approach me.”

“And if they weren’t?”

“Then the occupants of this theatre would know that they are being watched, which is also useful in this case.”

“What do you mean, the occupants of this theatre?”

“It’s a dreadfully useful place, a theatre. Dozens of entrances and exits,” said Holmes, gesturing to the wings. “Stage doors, servants’ doors, freight entrances. Too many villains have just happened to enter this building when they were being followed by myself or the police, and we cannot watch every entrance at all times.” I noticed that he for once connected himself firmly with the official police – a clear sign of the scale of his hunt.

“Not to mention, of course, the possibilities for disguise. Or for arranging disappearances. A man can enter, and the ticket takers will pay no attention to his appearance – how can they, among so many? And then he may never be seen again, for good or ill – but we may have no proof that he reached the music hall in the first place, and nowhere to start. Beyond that, of course, there is the income and information to be gained by the thieves and gamblers and prostitutes in the pit. It is rather brilliant,” he said with some bitterness.

“Moriarty has kept the music hall itself out of it – its finances and owners can in no way be connected to him or any of his men. It is only the building that he uses, but he uses that for every possible purpose. Therefore the police have investigated the company, the landlord, the owner, the patrons, and found nothing, and still the machine goes on.”

“If it is so great an operation, can even you shut it down alone, Holmes?”

He shook his head. “I will shut this operation down by uprooting it entirely. But that will take some time. For now, it is at least useful for gathering information.”

“Hence the disguise.”

Holmes snorted. “Hardly a disguise,” he said. “But it will do well enough. I was rather hoping to be noticed; I think that by this point the easiest way for me to gain further information is by direct confrontation with one of the lower nobility in the spider’s court. Tonight, I think, I will have it.” He produced a note from an inner pocket. “This was left in my dressing room this evening. It must have been done very soon before I entered it, which neatly limits the possible suspects.” He handed it over.

 _It’s clear enough why you’re here, sir,_ it read. _If you would allow an admirer to offer assistance, come alone to meet me in the loft at the end of the show._

“I take it this isn’t actually a note from an admirer,” I said.

“Of course it isn’t,” said Holmes impatiently. “More important is who it _is_ from. An uneducated man’s handwriting, but the grammar and style – not to mention the spelling – are clearly those of someone with schooling. Therefore, it was copied from a model written by someone else. Someone outside the theatre, using an agent, and most likely someone happy to let me know he is using an agent. The agent, though, may not know my identity. I do not recognize the handwriting, but it is most probably from one of the stagehands or the riggers, who would have an excuse to be in the loft at any time. I can’t imagine that there is only one man involved, however. I suppose it is useful that you have shown up.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” I said. “It seems that you have been perfectly happy to involve the police in your quest against Moriarty, but not to involve me.”

I realized with pleasure that I could still read all his expressions. “You _have_ ,” I said. “Why?”

“The police,” said Holmes hesitantly, “are doing their jobs; it seems that this is recognized, to an extent, and Moriarty limits his vengeance against them. You have your own affairs, your wife – there is an element of danger merely in declaring oneself against this network, and I have no right to expose you to it. I don’t mean merely the momentary peril of a single case, Watson,” he continued over my objections. “I mean the ongoing threat of an attack, blackmail, or harm to a loved one, at any time. I have seen it happen to others. Would you expose your wife to such a danger?”

“You might have _asked_ , Holmes.”

He shook his head, his lips a thin tight line. I realized that he was shaking. And then I thought of an alternate meaning to his last sentence.

I couldn’t ask that, ever. I couldn’t even imply that I had heard it, whether it was there or not. I grabbed for another subject, any other subject.

“You are managing extremely well,” I said. “This is clearly a masterwork of planning. Do you think Moriarty will stop using the theatre now that he knows you are watching it?”

“He surely knew before,” said Holmes almost casually, as was his wont when referring to danger to himself. “Take this, if you don’t mind.” He pulled his Webley from a pocket and handed it to me.

I took the gun. “But what of you?”

“I’ve a number of tricks up my sleeve, Watson,” said Holmes. He grinned at me, twisted his wrist, and seemed to pull a knife from thin air. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I mean, do you intend for us to separate?” I persisted.

“Yes. You will go up to the loft now, and conceal yourself. I shall be busying myself with a few other matters before making my appointment. Stay hidden until I say your name.”

“Are there police here, to provide assistance?”

“Not in the theatre, though they are waiting outside. This isn’t strictly a matter for them, Watson. I told you, the arrest of one or two men here will do nothing to stop the system.”

“What if you need more assistance than I can provide while hiding in the attics?”

“Watson,” said Holmes, with wearied patience in his voice, “I have planned this out. Your concern is appreciated but needless. Now, listen.”

“Of course.”

“I know you will not let yourself be seen, but take all possible care, especially while the riggers are still there. If I have not come within fifteen minutes of the last performance, come look for me here, and in the area of my dressing room. Unless the crew are still working then, in which case look for any man who stands out, either because he is doing little or because he seems to be waiting for something. If there is one, follow him when he leaves. Understood?”

“Yes. Is there anything else?”

“I don’t believe so. You’d better take your place now. Come.”

He strode past me and started up the stairs. I followed, of course. I always had, though it seemed the importance of my doing so was fading. It was clear enough that he had little need of me on cases anymore, though it had never been quite so clear as this.

Looking at it one way, I was flattered to be included anyway. On the other hand – well, if I was hurt, I ought to have expected it. Of course Holmes had managed alone in the years since I had begun my practice. And it was high time I paid more attention to my own work.

The loft was in use for a performance, and Holmes pulled me quickly away from the entrance and behind some spare coils of rope.

“You will need somewhere more secure than here,” he breathed into my ear. “Don’t speak. Behind the sandbags there might be good, if you can be certain you will still hear everything said. I shall see you shortly.” He gave me a last quick half-smile and slipped back down the stairs as noiselessly as he had come in.

As soon as there was a complicated task that required focused effort occupying the riggers, I moved along the wall until I was shielded from them by the sandbags and extra machinery in the corner Holmes had indicated. I made sure I could not be seen from the door, though the cover was not perfect.

I couldn’t see the workers unless I moved into sight myself, so I amused myself while waiting by attempting to guess what they were doing by the sound. I could certainly tell when they _weren’t_ working, and sometimes during those silences I could hear the performer on the stage, but I could make no sense of the whistled signals and creaking of ropes when they were raising or lowering scenery or curtains or properties. Holmes, no doubt, would be far more capable.

The riggers raised and tied the ropes off extremely quickly after each use, and the last show did not need them. They left immediately after it had finished and the curtain had been dropped, and I checked my watch and waited through the faint noise of applause from the theatre below.

The lights below brightened and the applause was replaced by conversation. The last steps in the loft faded down the stairs. I waited, straining my ears past the noises of the audience, most of them remaining behind to converse, drink, or gamble.

I had expected that the wooden floor would creak, even under the feet of someone as light-footed as my friend. I had expected less noise from below. And, fatally, I had expected anyone coming to enter by the same door as we had.

“Who the hell -!”

I whirled and raised my pistol. The man who had spoken was just as fast, and by the time I had him properly in my sights he had me in his as well. We stared at each other down the barrels of our guns.

He might have been one of the riggers, come back now that his fellows were gone. He was dressed similarly. But I was not sure I had seen him before; he might be anyone. He was taller than I, and heavily muscled, and his accent spoke of London’s fouler neighbourhoods, though it was smoothed by acquaintance with something of polite society. Whoever else he was, he must be Holmes’ correspondent.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, of course he brought a friend. _Clever_ of him, I’m sure.” His tone suggested he thought it anything but.

I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t give Holmes’ identity away, assuming it was still unknown. There was no excuse for my presence, of course. I cursed the circumstances.

“I suppose you won’t consider simply leaving quietly?” I said. My opponent made a derisive noise. “We are at an impasse,” I said, hoping it was true and he didn’t have reinforcements. “What do you propose instead?”

He frowned, clearly sizing me up. I let him. I might be less impressively built and farther from thirty than he was, but I suspected I would manage well enough even were neither of us armed. Armed, I had little fear of him at all.

“You should be looking a bit more worried,” he said, smirking. “Mr Holmes might take a little longer to show up than you think.”

My stomach clenched. Holmes had said there had to be more than one agent. If he was facing the others now, without me, it was my fault for stepping in and drawing attention.

I had better keep this man distracted, then, so at least he would not have to face more. There was little else I could do. “You know who he is?” I asked, to gain some time.

“Course I know who he is,” said the tough. “I ain’t a fool, and besides, I was warned. But now _you_ ’re here, and I figure that means he’s finally done snooping and ready to do whatever he came here for.”

Surely if Holmes were in serious danger this man would be more smug. He would have used Holmes’ situation to disconcert me. I relaxed a little, careful to remain ready. The fellow was not as smart as he thought himself.

“Tell me about your master,” I said. “Why are you working for him?”

“My _master_ , oh, is that what you call him?” said he. “I know someone who’s more of a dog than me. I’m here for my own reasons. I get my dues when this place runs smoothly. What are _you_ here for?”

I remained silent. Could he be trying to provoke me? It made little sense, if we were equally armed. But an angry man reacts less carefully, and I supposed he might have thought that if he riled me he would gain an advantage.

Holmes entered, and froze. So did the man facing me. I took advantage of his distraction to check over Holmes.

He had clearly been in a fight: his left arm was held a little behind him and one of his eyes would doubtless be black in the morning. I could not think about his injuries now, though, and I turned my gaze to my opponent just as his returned to me.

He was less cocky, now. Of course; he had been trying to get me to act foolishly before Holmes arrived and we gained the advantage. Still, he remained calm enough.

“Call off your dog,” he said to Holmes.

Heat poured over my face; Holmes had gone white just as quickly.

“As I expected,” said Holmes, approaching very slowly. He ignored the remark about me. “Robinson. A certain level of organizational ability, and a certain level of – well.” His tone suggested he was holding back a disparaging comment. I kept my eyes on the thug, who was distracted, gaze flashing between the two of us as Holmes approached behind him. At last he half turned away from me, focusing on my friend though his pistol was still pointed in my direction.

“Remember where my gun is,” said Robinson. “And you haven’t got one, or it would be out be now. I think you’d better stop right where you are.” Holmes stopped, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

“You know where the advantage lies nonetheless,” he said.

“Oh, do I?” said Robinson. “Maybe I’ve got a trick up my sleeve as well.” He sounded not only sincere but anticipatory, and I controlled my flinch towards Holmes only just in time. Holmes only smiled.

“Quite the loyal man,” said Holmes.

“At your damned service,” said Robinson. “Nice of you to drop by, now just tell your boy to drop the gun and we’ll all leave happy.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Holmes, and then his gaze flicked to me, meaningful but not in a way I could understand. Robinson turned his head to follow, and then dropped to the floor.

Holmes stood behind him, holding the sap he had used to club Robinson while the man was looking at me. “Amateurish,” he said. He restrained him with a length cut from one of the spare ropes, and said, “Come along, Watson.”

“You’re injured,” I said, lowering my gun and approaching him. “Besides, he said there were more.”

“He was bluffing,” said Holmes. “This is why I told you to stop gambling.” He waved my hands away from him. “There’s nothing serious, Watson, don’t fuss over me.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Nonsense.” He turned and started walking.

I followed him down the stairs reluctantly, asking, “What has happened to you while I was waiting?”

“There were two others below,” he said. “I’ve dealt with them. If there are any more they will find us, rather than us needing to look for them. But I think they have left, and we had better go as well – there is always a possibility that they will summon reinforcements, though I don’t think it likely. We certainly won’t be able to find them now. I suppose they will appear in some other matter soon enough.”

As he spoke we emerged into the hallway of dressing rooms. Though less crowded than they had been during the show, many of the performers were still there, looking dim and ordinary without the finery of their costumes. Holmes threaded through them without glancing to the side, and I trailed behind, not possessing his skill at winding through crowds. He pushed open a door and we were suddenly out in the cool summer night, in the alleyway behind the theatre.

Holmes turned left sharply, and tapped the shoulder of a thin young man waiting a few yards from the door. “Hopkins,” he said.

“Mr Holmes, sir,” said the man, clearly a plainclothes constable, though one I did not know.

“Matthew Robinson is in the loft of the theatre, unconscious and bound. Enter by that door, turn left, and then ascend the stairs at the end of the corridor to the top floor. He’s behind the disappearance of the Tumbling Turners, and he spirited Harry Simpson out of the country last month. On the floor below him are two of his associates and helpers, also bound. You’ll be able to find further charges from my notes – I’ll drop by Scotland Yard tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” said the man. “We caught a couple others leaving just as the show ended, as well.”

“Really? Good for you. How?”

“Believe it or not, Mr Holmes, it was a woman who tipped us off. She said she overheard their conversation and followed them, and she caught hold of a constable as they were leaving and alerted him. It was MacDonald; he recognized the men from the Palmer forgery case. They’re Staunton and Ludgate, Mr Holmes. She seemed to know a bit more about it than she ought to, but I told the man that so long as she was doing the right thing that was all that mattered.”

“Oh yes?” said Holmes, smiling. “And the lady, did she stay?”

“No, Mr Holmes, she said she ought to be getting home but the constable should give you her regards. Do you know a Mrs. Watson, sir?”

I laughed, and Holmes smiled wider. “Indeed,” he said. “You did quite well in listening to her. Go and get your charges, now, Hopkins, before they wake up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hopkins, striding off with purpose. I stared after him.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked. “They never obeyed you that quickly before.”

Holmes smiled. “Hopkins is rather an exception still,” he said with some irony. “He hero-worships me, and has high ambitions of making Inspector and putting my methods into practice. But in the case of Moriarty, the police and I cannot work without each other, and we both recognize this. There has been rather more cooperation between us than was true some time ago.”

The phrase struck me. In the last year I had not worked with Holmes nearly so often as before, and most of the cases had been rather trivial, not related to Moriarty at all. It was just another sign of how he was moving into his own sphere. And quite right, I told myself – surely the police were more useful allies than I. He didn’t seem to trust them entirely, however, if he had kept them at such a distance tonight.

“I should have expected Mary to do something like that,” I said. “At least she was not hurt.”

“Far less than we were, it seems,” said Holmes. “Rather humbling, eh? Come, let’s find a cab.” We walked along the dark alleyway to the corner of the building, and turned towards the distant glow of the still-busy street.

Hansoms were plentiful as the theatres emptied, though often already engaged. We secured one and started off in the direction of Westminster. Holmes was smiling and relaxed, as was usual for him after a case.

“Did you have any suspicions?” I asked. “His identity can’t have been a complete surprise to you.”

“I had suspicions of a group of men, but no idea of the relationships between them. I did not know Robinson was the leader of this division until tonight – it could have been any of the men I had marked as possibilities. He was clever, organizing the operation so that it was not immediately clear that it had any centre at all. Rather inspired by the model of his backer, I think.”

“Moriarty organizes his men the same way?”

“Even more so. I doubt even Robinson knows his name, and he was one of the brighter and better-connected men involved.” He laughed a little. “It’s hard to say, but I may have done the Professor a favour by removing Robinson before the man took it into his head to provide competition. Always assuming that we can keep him through the trial, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have I not told you? Part of how Moriarty keeps the loyalty of his men is his protection of them. If an agent of his is caught, money is invariably found for his bail or his defence. We have various ways of keeping the men in the system until a fair trial can be held, but it is always a chancy thing.”

He had not told me, of course, as he had not told me much about his opponent.

“It is at least a severe inconvenience to him,” Holmes continued. “This theatre was rather vital in its way. If the police and I keep a close enough watch on it we might manage to prevent the old machinery of Robinson’s organization from being reused before it begins to rust, so to speak. It is another step, Watson, and that is all one can hope for, with this work. And here we are at Baker Street, I see, and I will take my leave. Good night.”

“Good night,” I said, and Holmes gave the cabby my address before turning to his door.

It was clear enough, but there was something unsatisfying about the explanation. It was not the drawn out summary of all the hidden motivations and minute details that Holmes generally gave after the end of a case. It had large grey areas, where I could only dimly sense the shadow of the great criminal Holmes was tracking.

I was a little shaken, though, and not a good judge of logic. There had been a note of recklessness in Holmes’ behaviour this evening that I did not like. Its implications were unsettling. But of course Holmes was dedicated to the capture of Moriarty, I told myself. He might appear reckless now, but hopefully he would soon be finished, and back to himself. Moriarty could not hold out for much longer, I thought.

I must reiterate, looking back at this, that at the time Holmes had told me little of his great opponent, and I had no true idea of the scale of Moriarty’s operation. Such was my faith in Holmes that I believed he had only to set his mind to a task in order to accomplish it. So long as he wished to, that is. Certain things he clearly did not find worth his time.

It was not very far from Baker Street to my home, and I was shortly standing before my doorstep. There was a light in the bedroom window – Mary was awake, reading and waiting for me to return.

I was thinking about Holmes too much to fit anything else in my head. I have never been a coward, but I turned and walked left, down the street.

I had realized, talking to Mary some months after our marriage, that by then I had more experience with men than with women. I had not quite know what to do with the realization. But then, my affairs with men, with the exception of Holmes and one other, had been purely casual things, and being surrounded by men most of my life it was often easier to find another of my interests – that is, my former interests – than a woman of low virtue.

I had not even thought what to say of it to Mary until she asked about my history with women. I had not managed to find a way to explain it then or since, not even enough to excuse my reaction. But, angel that she was, she had not asked further, though I did not know what she privately speculated about my past. It could not be the truth, whatever it was.

I wanted to tell her. I wanted it almost every time we talked about Holmes, but now more than ever. She understood me so well in every other area, and I badly wanted someone to talk to about him. I had wanted that for years. But she would not understand this, and I could not look into her face as I ruined her opinion of myself and the right order of things.

It was over now – there was no need to concern her with it. I did not truly believe that she would love me less if she knew, but she would be different. And I loved her as she was. I loved her quickness and her bright questions and her intelligent management of our home. I loved her blonde hair and slim hips and the curve of her spine. I loved her freedom from concerns that had occupied me since my university days. I loved her knowledge and her innocence, and I did not want to ruin either one.

But Holmes’ friendship had been a support to me for years, just as she was. And with this realization that I was so far out of his trust – I could have told her about it, were it only that. I could have talked about our adventures and how I missed them. She might perhaps have sympathized with me and then reminded me that I ought to focus on my own work now that I had the opportunity. Or more likely she might have said, as she had tonight, that there was no reason for me to give up adventure with marriage, and made some suggestion to bring me back to it.

But I couldn’t tell her that with this history behind us. I could not think of what to say that would express my feelings while hiding the centre of them. And I wanted so much to tell her this, as I did everything else, that it hurt to try.

I had nearly rounded the block, and could put it off no longer. I had to apologize to Mary for leaving her alone during the show, anyway.

Then I remembered that she had played her own role in the evening’s action, and suddenly I was as curious to know how she had done it as she had ever been to hear my stories. I walked up the steps to my door more lightly than I had thought I would.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Prestidigitation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4472285) by [Violsva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva)




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